Wrapped Up
by roane
Summary: In which Sherlock is genre savvy and uses a situation to his advantage. Good thing it's to John's advantage too.


This is not how the evening was supposed to end. John's hands are nearly numb from the cold five stories up, peering over a narrow ledge to the street far below. "What the hell were you thinking, Sherlock?"

"He was getting away." Sherlock is sulking, leaning against the ledge next to him. "The door was his only escape route."

"Yes," John says, trying not to think about how he's losing all feeling in his freezing fingers. "The door. To the _roof_. Were you afraid he'd fly away, then? There was only one place for him to go—back inside the bloody building!"

"How was I supposed to know he'd lock the door?"

"Because you're the bloody genius!" John yells, then forces himself to take a deep breath. "All right. You phoned Lestrade before we broke in, right? He should be here soon."

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"Sherlock. You _did_ phone Lestrade."

"He would have only got in the way," Sherlock starts.

"Jesus Christ. You didn't call him."

The way Sherlock darts his eyes away from John is answer enough.

"Right," says John. "Where's your mobile?"

"Dead, battery died on the way here." The wind picks up, and Sherlock wraps his coat tighter around himself. John sighs and pulls out his own phone and hands it over.

Sherlock tugs the leather glove off his left hand with his teeth. The black of the leather is startling against the white of Sherlock's teeth and the paleness of his skin and more startling to John is that he's even noticing. When did he start paying attention to Sherlock's _teeth_, for God's sake? John can feel the warmth of Sherlock's fingers where they brush his, taking the mobile from him.

He dials the mobile while John tries to breathe. The cold sharp wind keeps stealing his breath. That's all it is. "Lestrade. We've got your forger trapped down in Vauxhall." He gives the address. "Hurry."

"Trapped?" John laughs, because this night is not getting any less ridiculous. "We've got _him_ trapped."

"John," Sherlock says, "if I'd told him to hurry because we were trapped on a roof, we'd be here the rest of the night."

"We're never going to live this down," John says, his teeth starting to chatter. He bounces on his toes, trying to warm up a bit.

"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock says, "Why didn't you wear a warmer coat than that?" He grabs John by the coat sleeve and pulls him around the other side of the stair enclosure so they're out of the worst of the wind.

"I didn't expect to be spending quite so much time outside," John says, leaning heavily against the wall. Their eyes meet for a long moment, then Sherlock grins and John starts laughing. Then they're laughing together and John feels warmer already.

"The only logical solution is to share body heat," says Sherlock. Before John can respond, Sherlock pulls him over and wraps his coat around John. John makes a noise that doesn't quite manage to coalesce into an actual word, or even a syllable. He's pressed tight against Sherlock's chest and his arms are awkwardly sticking out to the sides. He can either stand there and let them stick out, or he can tuck them the rest of the way under Sherlock's coat.

Belatedly he realises this means that he and Sherlock are standing with their arms around each other, wrapped up in Sherlock's coat.

It's not at all unpleasant, and that's the problem. Sherlock's chest is warm against John's, rising and falling with each breath. This is not something John has even remotely considered before (no, really), and it's more than a little unsettling how well they... fit. John feels like he could lean in just a bit more and mold perfectly against Sherlock's frame from head to toe and—his train of thought breaks, blood rushing to his cheeks.

"Next thing you know, you'll be asking me to fix your copier," Sherlock says, his voice a low chuckle at John's ear. "Like that movie you downloaded the other night."

_What? Oh god._ "Sherlock, you didn't watch it." John had been a little bit desperate one night not long ago. He'd regretted it almost instantly, particularly since it wasn't terribly good pornography.

"What was the appeal in that, by the way? I didn't quite see." Sherlock sounds mildly curious, as if he were asking John where the last of the biscuits had gone. "The girl was conventionally attractive I suppose, but honestly. She just looked bored while she was having sex."

"Sherlock, shut up." The very last thing John wants to talk about right now is sex, not while he's essentially _snuggling_ his flatmate.

"Is it that you really enjoy fake breasts that much?" Sherlock's mouth is too close to John's ear, speaking far softer than is necessary, and he _can't_ know what that sounds like, can he?

"Sherlock, really. _Shut up_."

Sherlock does, for a wonder. John tries to breathe normally, but goddamn it, now he's thinking about that movie, and does Sherlock really have to smell so... so good? He shifts, uncomfortable, and only succeeds in brushing his hips against Sherlock's and that was _not at all_ what he'd planned. John's face is flushed and hot as he tries to think of how to extricate himself from Sherlock's coat without embarrassing himself.

Sherlock speaks again, and John realises with horror that Sherlock has been thinking this _entire_ time and that the subject hasn't really changed at all. "Do you imagine that you're the one having sex with the girl? Or is it just more that the visual stimulus is sufficient, without adding the element of fantasy?"

John doesn't trust himself to speak, and instead tries to pull away before things get any more humiliating. He's half-hard already just from Sherlock's words and Sherlock's goddamn unfair voice and the last thing he wants is for Sherlock to—

Then Sherlock's mouth is at his ear again, and this time John knows Sherlock _has_ to be doing this on purpose. "Do you masturbate while you watch, or do you wait until later? I've always wondered. If it's the former, you're quite circumspect." John _flinches_ away, trying to hide the shiver running across his shoulders. He pulls away enough to look up to say something—and without thinking, sways back in on tiptoe and presses his mouth to Sherlock's. He breaks the kiss, ready to move away in embarrassed horror when Sherlock's arms around his shoulders tighten and this time it's _Sherlock_ kissing _him_.

John makes a helpless breath of a sound when Sherlock's mouth opens against his, just a tiny bit, the barest suggestion of the tip of Sherlock's tongue brushing against John's lips. Sherlock breaks the kiss a heartbeat later and chuckles, low and throaty, the sound familiar but now imbued with a whole new layer of meaning. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever take the hint," Sherlock says.

"You—you were doing that on _purpose_," John says. He disentangles himself from Sherlock's coat as a wave of heat sweeps up from his gut to the top of his head. He can't decide if it's desire or anger before deciding it's both. Sherlock is giving him that smug bastard smile and John snaps. He pushes Sherlock by the shoulders back against the wall and leans into him hard, pulling Sherlock's mouth down to his, biting and licking more than properly _kissing _him. John's getting harder with each pulse of air from Sherlock's lips to his and now he's not bothering to hide it, rocking his hips against Sherlock's thigh before settling his mouth over Sherlock's in a demanding kiss. "Was this what you wanted?" he growled. Sherlock's only answer is to tilt his head back and oh Jesus that _neck_ so next John's biting down on the rope of muscle there and Sherlock moans loud enough that John wonders if the sound carries down to the street.

John's wondering if they would freeze to death without their trousers (and if so, did he care) when there's a loud crash and the door to the stairs slams open. "Sherlock? John?" Lestrade's voice sounds from around the enclosure and they have just a second to step away from each other. Sherlock flips up the collar of his coat to hide what might darken into a bruise shortly. "Around here," Sherlock says.

"Where is he?" Lestrade asks, looking around. "You said you had him trapped."

"I lied," Sherlock says. "He got away. But his name is Kevin Marwood and he works for your victim's cousin."

"What? Sherlock—"

"Text me when you've arrested him. John and I have to get home." Sherlock sweeps past Lestrade and his two officers, dragging John along behind him. John manages to give Lestrade an apologetic look, but truthfully, he's not sorry.


End file.
